


wires

by stilinskitrash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Clarke is the mockingjay kinda, F/M, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, The Hunger Games AU, it's the hunger games what do u expect, not much fluff sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-05-03 12:52:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14569431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskitrash/pseuds/stilinskitrash
Summary: Her games were the start of it all, a catalyst for something bigger than Clarke and bigger than the Capitol. As Clarke stood, broken and beaten, a kiss away from death, the last man standing, she defied them. With a handful of nightlock berries, she would have ended it all. She’d lost so much - was terrified she’d lost parts of herself - thanks to the Capitol. She would not let them win her, too. There would be no victor.That was not how it ended, of course.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is NOT katniss = clarke and peeta = bellamy. they are their own characters within the world and although it still follows the rebellion etc, i have taken liberties. all the ages are very different, as the tributes couldn't be the ages they are in t100 world for it to make sense. they're all still close in age, with the characters you know and love ranging from 18 to about 27. OC's are older. e.g. Clarke is 19 where this picks up after her games, and Bellamy is 24, meaning the age difference is p much the same as in the show. Octavia is 18, so still canonically younger. any questions, hmu on noahfcsters.tumblr.com!

_You flicker. I cannot touch you._

_I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns._

**_Sylvia Plath_ **

 

 

Clarke’s first thought as she raised her voice above the crowd was not of herself, but of the terrified 12 year old being escorted onto stage.

It wasn't unusual for the eligible to volunteer in place of chosen tributes in District 1, as if the chance to enter a televised bloodbath were an honour. That was never Clarke’s mentality, even when she was surging forward to take the place of her district’s petrified female tribute, or when the speaker’s declared her the 74th victor.

She’d survived 17 years of her life through luck of the draw. Every Reaping, Clarke would struggle to still the anxiety that would plague her. It seemed like a cruel twist of fate that she would end up in the games so close to being free of that anxiety.

The girl’s family were thankful to the point of tears, as Clarke numbly reassured them that it was fine. They’d insisted on coming to see her before she left for the Capitol, and Clarke tried to focus on the life that the little girl would have a better chance of living thanks to her. But she felt no hero complex, no swell of pride or rightful duty. She was condemning herself to death.

Those were her mother’s words, and Clarke’s silent thoughts.

Her games were the start of it all, a catalyst for something bigger than Clarke and bigger than the Capitol. As Clarke stood, broken and beaten, a kiss away from death, the last man standing, she defied them. With a handful of nightlock berries, she would have ended it all. She’d lost so much - was terrified she’d lost parts of herself - thanks to the Capitol. She would not let them win her, too. There would be no victor.

That was not how it ended, of course. As if the Capitol would let such defiance humiliate them in front of the nation. Clarke woke up in a room in the Capitol, the memory of standing in the arena with the dark berries in her palm were the last thing she could recall. Later, when she rewatched the footage, they’d played it off as her collapsing from exhaustion, not being forcibly knocked out.

They did not forget what she was determined to do.

Clarke returned to District 1, a hero, her almost act of suicide either forgotten or misunderstood. The Capitol could manipulate any situation, and whatever they had done reflected Clarke only as a victor. She was a pawn in their game, being controlled even when she was unaware of it. Winning had its price.

Her homecoming meant a place in the Victor’s Village, of which her mother was all too happy to move into. Not that they were poor before - both her parents had distinguished jobs - but the Victor’s Village was just something else entirely. Clarke felt isolated. It sat away from the central neighbourhoods of District 1, away from her friends and community lots. Her father seemed to like the quiet, which she couldn’t blame him for.

But she lost her father the first time she rebelled.

The Capitol wanted to parade her around, rent her out and use her. She’d heard rumours of victor’s whose bodies were no longer theirs, or famously promiscuous victors and in-high-demand victors. Clarke had never thought enough of herself to expect the Capitol to want a piece of _her_. It horrified and frightened her, and she naively turned them away, thinking for one second she might actually control her life.

She found him, lifeless on the kitchen floor, having overdosed. After that, Clarke did everything they said, not wanting anyone else she cared about to suffer or _die_ because of her.

The Victory Tour was arduous; her escort, Cloelia, glorified Clarke’s win, idolizing it as triumph and an example of how to win the games. Maya, her stylist, was a friendly and warm face. Her mentor, Marcus Kane, was easier to stand but they agreed on very little. Kane wanted peace, in the sense of what Clarke liked to think of as “laying down to die”. Clarke wanted justice, and she wasn’t sure peace would ever accomplish that in this world. The district’s had the same idea, starting with 11, where a mob began when a man spoke out to condemn the Capitol and support Clarke. They should have _hated_ her; she was from a career district, she’d killed their children. But her almost act of rebellion must have slipped through the cracks, igniting a movement she couldn’t have foreseen.

Everywhere she went, it followed her. The tunnels of the districts were tainted with mockingjays, dark red and taunting. It was her pin, one that Wells had given her before they both entered their games. People sang the mockingjay whistle, they wore braids in their hair like Clarke so casually did and graffitied dangerous and defiant words on district buildings. It wasn’t a trend, it was a challenge.

The Presidential Palace was the last place Clarke wanted to be after being berated for nearly two weeks, dressed in glitter and gold, with the weight of her disobedience hanging around her neck. A dance with the new head gamemaker was even lower on her to-do list. Plutarch Heavensbee was nothing like Seneca Crane, but that didn’t mean Clarke trusted him any more. Not even when he showed her his watch, revealing a tiny mockingjay symbol. _It’s just for a show, you’re a marketing ploy to the Capitol to show off and adore,_ she told herself.

Home wasn’t home without her father. Clarke couldn’t even look her mother in the eye. Instead, she avoided her daughter, spending hours at the hospital working shifts rather than face her. So when President Snow announced the third Quarter Quell, Clarke was alone.

District 1 wasn’t short on victors, but Clarke was the youngest female victor. She found the others insufferable, victors who’d won for the glory and reaped the benefits. Blossia was a few decades her senior; intimidating but generally drunk. The others, Vita and Daphne, stared at Clarke with such disdain that she never bothered with them. The male victors, Remus, Gallio and Felix were all older than her too, arrogant and brutish in nature. When possible, she avoided them, keeping to herself. She’d killed her best friend to get where she was; she wasn’t ready to make anymore friends right now, not that her options were great.

She knew that made her chances of being picked for the third Quarter Quell - where victors were chosen from the pool of existing victors instead - one of four. It didn’t come as a shock when Clarke’s name was read out during the reaping. This was the price she was paying. If all four names in the glass bowl Cloelia dipped her hand into had all read _Clarke Griffin_ , she wouldn’t have been shocked. No one volunteered for her. The male victor was Felix, and Clarke tried to suppress her grimace. He stared daggers at her as he ascended the stairs to the stage, but smiled for the cheering crowd.

Clarke met her mother’s eyes, tear ridden, lip quivering as she stubbornly attempted to keep a calm posture. She didn’t shake Felix’s hand, and she didn’t say goodbye. It hurt less to leave with words unspoken.

 

-

 

From a distance, she knew them all. Beneath their jewels and makeup, Clarke had watched them bare faced and bloody as they murdered the other tributes in their games. The quarter quell tributes a jumble of intimidating and strange, young and old. Having only just won her games, it wasn’t like Clarke had any friends among them.

But she knew lots about them. She knew of Monty Green, a tribute from 3 who was inseparable from Jasper Jordan, of District 11. The Capitol loved to parade them on TV as a comedy duo, which Clarke had always figured was full of scripted jokes and manufactured anecdotes. She watched them from across the room, genuinely laughing with another tribute that she recognised as 3’s female tribute, and began to doubt those preconceptions.

Raven Reyes was of _course_ attending, glamorous and in high demand. She had a lot of attitude, but had somehow remained a Capitol darling. Clarke remembered watching her games, the 68th, where she’d built a bomb from scraps and blown half the tributes to hell. She’d been 15. Raven appeared to be close with the practically-crowned prince of District 4, Finn Collins, who had his arm slung around her neck casually.

She made a point of steering clear from District 2, despite Felix’s insistent reminders about forming a career pack alliance. Roan and Lexa seemed particularly hostile, tucked away in a corner with Felix and District 4’s female tribute, Luna.

She thought she could just stick to the shadows and get the god awful tributes party over with quietly. Making conversation didn’t break her list of priorities. It figured that the District 7 misfit, John Murphy, was just as self-isolating. Distracted by the careers, she backed up right into him near the buffet table, knocking the plate out of his hand and creating a clamour of noise that brought all the attention to the pair.

“Trying to kill me already, princess?” He sneered with a short laugh, as a couple of avoxes ran over to clear up the mess.

She wouldn’t dignify him with a response. Crouching down, she tried to help them with the clear up, feeling guilty and hating the tributes’ eyes on her. The avoxes shook their heads at her quickly, eyes practically begging that she let them take care of it.

Murphy wasn’t deterred. “We’re doing great, don’t you think? _So_ many allies. People practically lining up to be our friends. The psycho and the rebel. Hey, Snow should make a new TV show-”

“Shut _up,_ Murphy. God.” Clarke hissed, shooting to her feet and turning on him. “I’m not - I can’t do this. Please leave me alone.” She squeezed her eyes shut, stressed and frustrated.

“ _This?_ ” He raised a brow. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

Before Clarke could think about firing back some kind of retort, she was suddenly aware of a new, looming presence behind her.

“Winding up the Capitol’s new favourite toy already, Murphy?”

Clarke almost had to catch her breath. She didn’t have to turn around to know the deep, coarse voice of Bellamy Blake. Murphy’s facial expression instantly shifted, and he shrugged noncommittally.

“She’s no fun.” He remarked, reaching for a drink in a tall glass and downing it in one.

“I don’t know about that.” Clarke could hear the smirk in Bellamy’s voice. She rotated to face him, an anxious sickness blooming in the pit of her stomach. “The rebel princess seemed fun enough during her games.”

Bellamy Blake had won the 66th Hunger Games when he was 15, defying all odds as a teen from the most poverty stricken area of District 12. Back then, the Capitol hadn’t expected much from someone of his background, until he scored an 11 during the Gamemakers assessment, ranking the highest among the tributes. Interviews showed him as standoffish yet strangely charming. There was a closed off but charismatic air to him that had teens swooning. Clarke was only 10 at the time, but he had the attention of everyone in Panem, including her. All eyes on him, he proved reckless and deadly in the games. After his victory, the Capitol tried to sell him as a kind of miracle child, their fierce warrior, but Bellamy Blake sunk away from the spotlight. The next time the Capitol really heard from him, his sister was chosen as tribute.

It was a cruel twist of fate. No one had even known he’d had a sister, and Clarke had deduced that he’d purposefully made it so she was kept a secret. If the Capitol didn’t know about her, they couldn’t hurt her.

Perhaps they’d found out. Perhaps her nomination as tribute was the price he paid for his defiance.

Yet Octavia Blake was a weapon in and of herself. Scoring just 1 point below her brother, the younger Blake got on better with the crowds and other tributes - even if they did deem her the “bitch” of the 73rd batch. Her games were only a year before Clarke’s. Octavia was 17 now, 2 years Clarke’s younger and intimidatingly ruthless. The duo instantly became a Capitol favourite, no matter how guarded and reclusive they tried to be.

Both of them being the tributes for the quarter Quell was the icing on the cake.

The teenager was nowhere in sight now, only Bellamy Blake’s staggering figure in front of her, dark hair falling over darker eyes.

“Can I help you?” She raised her brows, trying not to let him intimidate her.

“You could start by being less of a bitch-” Clarke had whirled on Murphy in a matter of seconds, her right fist colliding messily with his jaw. Hands were restraining her before he could stagger back to his feet, and the party had gone eerily silent.

“Careful, princess,” Bellamy warned as he whispered into her ear, holding both her arms behind her back, “the fight hasn’t started yet.”

She ripped herself away from his grip, staring at him incredulously. “The fight started the moment they read our names out for a second time. Don’t fucking _touch_ me.”

His face didn’t shift, looking at her with a hint of sardonic humour. It was infuriating, and the other tributes were still quietly watching the spectacle. The career tributes were practically glaring daggers at her. Eventually, Nathan Miller and Monty edged over to check on Murphy, whose nose was now profusely bleeding. He shrugged them off restlessly, cursing them out.

Clarke could feel her head spinning, Bellamy’s eyes still trained on her as if studying some kind of wild creature. Her hand was throbbing from the blow, the skin on her knuckles threatening to split. Every fibre of her body burned with anger induced from the conflict and the alcohol.

She turned on her heels and stormed away, not daring to look back at the other tributes as she made for the elevator with what little repose she still had.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellloooo chapter twooo woo here we go! btw, title of the fic is from the song by the neighbourhood. not too set on it, if i find a better fic title i will change it, just so you know, but i'll let you guys know before/after i do.

Worrying about the repercussions of her outburst at the tributes party was futile. What could the Capitol do to her now? They’d forced her to murder her best friend the first time around, killed her father for her defiance, and were throwing her back into the games she just barely escaped. 

Her apartment was too big. There was too much space, ironically contrasting the loneliness that plagued her. Felix shared it with her but otherwise hardly uttered a word in her direction. Not that she’d have wanted to talk to him, or that she thought for a moment that he wouldn’t kill her the first moment he got the chance.

He’d gone to bed early, leaving Clarke to flick through the dull and nauseatingly vibrant television channels in the Capitol. She eventually gave up, venturing quietly out of their apartment into the expansive hallway.

Last year, Clarke had escaped with Wells to the roof of the tribute centre every night they’d stayed there. They’d looked out over the city of the people who took enjoyment in the death and oppression of people like themselves, wishing futilely for a better life. Wells had deserved a better life.

It had crossed her mind many times if she should have let him kill her instead; let him win the games and make the most of it, change the world and do some good. The thought was bitter now

The moment she stepped onto the roof, she noticed the dark figure. Clarke panicked, worrying that the guards now patrolled it and she’d lost another place to hideaway. The figure was leaning against the edge, head bowed but exhaling smoke as they dangled a thin stick between their fingers.

“This is my spot.” Her voice came out quieter than she’d have liked.  _ Mine and Wells’ _ . 

Bellamy Blake craned his neck around to acknowledge her. “Didn’t know you owned a building in the Capitol. You’re really going up in the world, princess.”

She folded her arms across her chest, walking over to where he was stood cautiously. Clarke would  _ not _ give up this spot to the likes of him.

“I’d appreciate if you would keep your sarky comments to yourself,  _ Blake _ .”

He inhaled the stick for a few seconds, eyes trained on the skyline. “Wouldn’t want to make a promise I couldn’t keep.” His exhale blew the smoke in Clarke’s direction, filling her nose with the smell of burning, mixed with something sweet. 

Clarke was too exhausted to play his game. A silence fell over them. The sun was peeking over the horizon, threatening to rise and bring a new day of hell. The Capitol was beginning to wake up, the bustle and noise of the streets below was a quiet hum.

“Why didn’t you do it?” He asked, killing the silence.

She frowned, “do what?”

Bellamy flicked the stick he was smoking on to the floor, stamping the heat out with his boot. “Why didn’t you kill yourself?”

Trying not to look taken aback was difficult; the audacity of the confrontation both infuriated and upset her. Of course Bellamy Blake would have seen the truth of her win, and seen through the Capitol’s manipulation. He’d worked out how the 74th Hunger Games could have ended.

Clarke propped herself up against the wall that was stopping her from falling to her death. “I have people I care about. Well –  _ Had _ . Fuck.” She sighed, her breathing wavering uneasily. Her voice got quiet, “I should have done it. Then-then maybe we wouldn’t even be in this nightmare. God, all I had to do was play by the rules. It’s my fault.” It was a realisation, the weight of Clarke’s actions pushing her to fit the pieces together, to connect her rebellion to Snow’s anger and actions. The consequences. The forthcoming deaths.

“You’re wrong.”

“Excuse me?” 

“You’re wrong.” Bellamy repeated, facing her. “Yes, you were the spark that ignited the flame. I wasn’t the only one who noticed what you would have done had the gamemakers not stopped you. You’ve inspired people, like it or not. But the revolution has been whispered about in the districts for longer than you know, like the embers of a fire. Now it’s out of control.”

Words failed Clarke momentarily, staring at him as if he’d just spoken a foreign language. “You can’t say stuff like that. Not here.” She averted her eyes, glancing around them, paranoid. “Anyone could be listening.”

Bellamy smirked bitterly, raising his arms in challenge. “What are they gonna do, princess? Kill me? Kill my sister? Wake up, District 1. You’re fast becoming a symbol, and a target. Accept it now; accept it later. It  _ will _ catch up with you.” 

 

-

 

Training began the next day. Clarke was running on four pitiful hours of restless sleep and a drink pumped with  _ god knows what _ that Cloelia had forced her to down. Felix didn’t say a word to her, instead opting to consume a bite of everything on offer at breakfast. She managed to eat a few small, reasonably plain tasting pastries, and some fruit that would have cost an unimaginable amount back home. Kane rambled on with some encouraging quotes and tales and words of wisdom, all of which sounded like static to Clarke.

She let Felix go on ahead, and ended up arriving last of the tributes to the session. Clarke’s strongest area was hand-to-hand combat, but growing up in District 1 meant she wasn’t unacquainted with many other skills. The only area she’d never particularly excelled in was archery. Octavia Blake was like Artemis herself, a hunting goddess Clarke remembered reading about one time she’d snuck into the school’s library, who was a master with a bow. The culture and world section was strictly off limits at school, but Clarke was curious as to life outside of Panem.  _ If  _ there was life outside of Panem. She’d stumbled across a book on Ancient Greek mythology in a desperate grab for  _ something  _ in the restricted section, and became enraptured in its history and tall tales of heroes and titans.

Octavia seemed the type of person who would dare to fearlessly challenge someone like Artemis anyday. Her precision and skill had shocked audiences during her games. Only her score during the Gamemaker’s assessment, and her ties to her ruthless older brother, foreshadowed her as a formidable opponent. 

Now, Clarke was captivated watching the brunette load arrow after arrow in her quiver, never missing, never losing focus, even when Jasper Jordan began a juvenile cheer beside her. Once she’d run out of arrows, her demeanour snapped. She rounded on Jasper, palms pushing him back hard so he fell over some weight lifting equipment. Lincoln, the male tribute from 10, slipped in between the two, his eyes glued to Octavia’s until she eventually backed off. He bested her in height, probably a third taller than she was, and stocky as hell. A fight wasn’t worth the damage.

She attempted to hone in her focus, train her thoughts specifically on getting in some practice and not on studying the other tributes. There was a mat on the floor in the far left corner of the training room, occupied by the least amount of people and where Clarke could probably get the most quiet.

Finn and Luna from District 4 were sparring together, but it wasn’t much of a fight. Luna was quicker on her feet and much more strategic, and had the upper hand despite Finn’s strength. As careers, they were rigorously put through tests and challenges since a young age, made fit for a chance in the arena. Finn was practically the sweetheart of the Capitol, a conventionally beautiful brunette with charming eyes and compassionate words. Clarke wasn’t even sure she watched his games; she’d had to skim over the footage on the train to the Capitol.

Luna was a different story. She’d won the 64th, 10 years prior to Clarke, in a games riddled with water based obstacles and challenges. As a resident of District 4, this played greatly to her advantage, ensuring Luna had a headstand. She could swim incredibly well, manage to stay undetected underwater for long periods of time, and move through it stealthily like it were nothing. Many of the Districts were geographically nowhere near bodies of water, and so their tributes were not accustomed to survival in their new surroundings. Luna picked them off like flies.

“It’s the princess,” Finn sighed, breathing heavily as the District 4 pair circled each other on the mat, “come to watch? Or come to play?”

Clarke narrowed her eyes. “Neither. To fight.”

The two tributes exchanged a look. “Step right up!” Finn laughed, rubbing his hands together and stretching out his muscles. Luna stepped to the side silently, but Clarke could feel her eyes on her. Clarke’s wrapped her hair up quickly in the band around her wrist, stepping onto the mat and readying herself. The male tribute was had a good few inches on Clarke, but Clarke would have said they were pretty evenly matched in muscle. Finn’s smirk suggested he thought otherwise.

“No  _ serious  _ face hits,” Finn clarified, “gotta look pretty for the Capitol tonight, right?” he grinned, and Clarke wasn’t so sure that he didn’t actually love the attention they showered him in.

Finn moved in first, bouncing on his feet and swinging his right arm towards her neck. Clarke’s left arm pulled up to block it, and she used the force of his blow to pull him closer, situating a leg between his so she could twist him around. Her other leg flew up, knee colliding with his stomach as he gripped onto her shoulders. Finn stumbled back momentarily, a hand still on her left shoulder. He held on hard, propelling himself into her and grabbing her right elbow with his free hand and pulling it tight behind her back so it was strained an at unnatural position. His other hand was caging her left arm at her side, fingernails digging into her skin. With him stood flush against her back, Finn leaned in so she could feel his breath against her neck.

He tightened his hold on her arm, contorted at a strange angle behind her. “Had enough, princess?”

She would have laughed if this were funny. If any of this was funny. 

Clarke answered him with ripping her left arm from his grasp, and pulling back her elbow into his face. Finn swore, losing his grip on Clarke and clutching a hand to his nose. 

“I said no serious face shots!” He mumbled through his hands, but Clarke wasn’t done.

She flew towards him, and he uselessly tried to block her blows as blood sprayed from his nose, speckling the mat with dark red. With the wrist that felt less bruised from Finn’s restraint, Clarke wrapped her palm around the back of his neck and pushed him down to waist level. Finn let out a disgruntled noise of pain, and Clarke delivered a sweeping blow with her foot to his ankle, toppling him over. Finn hit the mat face first, his nose making an unsettling crunching noise.

The training room suddenly felt eerily silent.

Finn groaned a series of curse words, rolling himself onto his back. His nose didn’t look pretty. Clarke shot an uneasy look at Luna, whose face was unreadable but eyes were on Clarke. She rung a hand around her bruised wrist self consciously, before stepping off the mat and backing away from the situation. 

Her footsteps against the cold training room floor echoed as she hurried towards the outdoor corridor, away from the tributes who’d began watching on at their fight when she wasn’t looking. She wished the silence had been deafening; the silence spoke more words than any of them needed to speak aloud.

She  _ was  _ a target.

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

Clarke froze in the middle of the hallway, the door swinging shut behind the voice calling after her.

She squeezed her eyes tight in frustration. “Anywhere but here.”

Bellamy Blake scoffed. She refused to turn around to meet him. “Because you beat Collins?”

“Because everyone is always watching me.” She hissed, balling her fists. “Because they either look at me like I’m some freak or some saviour. I don’t want to be either.”

Bellamy was quiet, the sound of his growing footsteps setting Clarke slightly on edge. He stopped an arms reach away, just behind her. “Why do you  _ care  _ what they think? They  _ should  _ know you’re powerful. They  _ should  _ know that you’re competition. Don’t run away from your advantage.”

Clarke’s brow creased, and she turned on her heels slowly to give him a bemused look. She hadn’t noticed him before, in the training room. Had he cut his hair since last night? It clung closer to his head, the dark curls shorter and more controlled. 

“And what am i to you? Am i competition?” 

He smiled down at her, taller than Finn, and most of the other tributes.  _He'll be the death of me,_ she thought tragically, _perhaps both literally and figuratively_. “Everyone’s competition,” Bellamy shrugged nonchalantly, “just remember who the real enemy is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments make my heart singggg  
> drop me a message on noahfcsters.tumblr.com if ya want !


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke was sure if she had to wear her goddamn dress for any longer she would combust. There were too many sequins, too much glitter, and not enough fabric. It clung to her curves like another skin, each sequin threatening to dig into her flesh at certain angles. The bust of the dress was uncomfortably low, and she wasn't even sure how it was keeping her assets from falling out. The sooner she could tear it off, the better. 

But first, national TV.

Felix was wearing a suit of a similar fabric, a sequined blazer and trousers with a thin, see through white shirt underneath. His dark auburn hair was slicked back against his head, his cheekbones glittering and face dewey. They exuded wealth; icons of District 1. 

As the first district, their appearance was before the other tributes on Caesar Flickerman’s talkshow. They'd appear on their own, endure an interview, then wait at the back of the stage and watch as he other tributes spoke.

Kane had run them through some vague, recommended question answers and interview etiquette, all of which she knew both her and Felix would ultimately ignore. They heard the cry of the crowd, the cackle of Caesar’s laugh, and Clarke’s stomach knotted uneasily.

Felix went first, softening her anxiety minutely as she could get a feel of Caesar's attitude tonight. But it came to an end, and numbly she let herself be pushed up the steps and onto the stage, the lights overwhelming and dizzying. 

“Welcome, welcome!” Caesar grinned ear to ear, “my, don't you look glamorous. I'm bedazzled!” 

Clarke sat parallel to the purple haired presenter, giving him rehearsed replies to small talk questions. She laughed when she heard the audience do the same, taking cues from them, and smiled absently when Caesar made a joke. Clarke desperately searched for anywhere to fix her eyes but the crowd or Caesar. Looking out at the mass of faces made her feel more nauseous.

“Now, Clarke, it wasn't long ago that you were sitting up here for the first time. You're our most recent victor!” A cheer from the crowd. “Tell me, how does it feel to be back so soon? Were you scared? Excited?” 

Her tongue seemed caught in her mouth, threatening to draw blood as she dug her teeth into the flesh.

“It-it was indescribable, Caesar,” she answered, forcing her voice to be as airy and light as possible, “I was surprised the Capitol would want me back so soon.”

The crowd broke out into more cheering, and Caesar let out a short boom of a laugh. “Of course, we do! Your games were alive with suspense and surprise! And, of course, tragedy.” Caesar’s face fell suddenly, and he reached out a sympathetic hand towards her. The audience compliantly awed, and Clarke watched in horror as the screens surrounding them began to project a huge photo of Wells Jaha. “We were all moved and saddened by the demise of your fellow tribute, Wells. How have you been coping since then?”

Now she really would be sick. Suppressed memories of his lifeless body came back to life in her mind, her hands wrapped around his neck until he choked out his last breath and Clarke’s body collapsed in on itself in the dirt.

“I..” the words wouldn't come out. She could feel Felix’s stony eyes from behind her, and her subconscious screamed at her to say  _ something _ . The audience were on the edge of their seats, Clarke’s palm sweating in the grip of the purple haired man in front of her. Wells’ pixelated eyes stared down at her.

“He was my best friend.” It would've been a whisper if not for her microphone. “Nothing will ever be the same. But I- he would want- Wells would want me to be happy.”  _ Wells would want to be alive.  _ “We do what we have to do.”  _ Please let me leave it at that. _

Caesar’s other hand patted hers comfortingly, “and so we do.” He nodded thoughtfully, and the audience seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. 

The other interviews followed a similar pattern, a mix of straight faces and broken composure, grief and anger. Luna surprised her, giving blunt answers where Finn’s were crowd pleasing and charming. Raven Reyes was another shock, erupting in an outburst of fury and swearing, her fellow tribute futilely trying to calm her down. John Murphy had to be escorted on and then off stage, his answers too obviously rehearsed and clipped as a precaution. She wondered darkly what they’d  threatened him with; she knew the fates his parents had suffered. There must’ve been something else keeping him going that they’d found out about.

By the time District 12 came around, the buzz from the audience had slightly dulled. The tension from the tributes had seeped into the audience, and although Caesar’s jokes still landed, everything felt slightly tilted. The tributes weren’t trying to impress anyone like usual,not trying to win sponsors or the audience’s favour. They were  _ tired _ .

Bellamy Blake commanded the respect of the stage as soon as he stepped foot on it.

Both he and Octavia were dressed head to toe in black, and paired with their dark hair they were like almost like messengers of death. Caesar Flickerman had a hard time getting anything interesting out of them, but they somehow still earned some laughs and gasps from the audience.

Bellamy was asked about how watching Octavia be picked twice felt.  _ Like shit,  _ Clarke imagined, but Bellamy handled the question with poise, even if his answer was vague as hell and Clarke could feel the anger radiating off of him. 

Octavia’s round was more focused on her age, her skill and her games, and the pure incredulity of it all. She offered more leeway to the audience, exuding sly charisma in an almost intoxicating way. It wasn’t hard to prove she was a force to be reckoned with in the arena and on a stage. In some ways, Clarke was more intimidated by Octavia than her brother, but she didn’t trust either of them.

“Any final words?” Caesar asked the brunette, exuberant smile painted on his face.

She considered for a moment, and from where Clarke stood on behind the two of them, she could sense a brewing tension. 

Then Octavia smiled  wickedly, her face projected on the screens around them. “Just that from the ashes we will rise. And we will burn whatever’s in our way.”

The audience murmurs travelled through the crowd like a wave. Caesar was thrown off, coming up empty with a reply to her ominous sounding comment, which Clarke definitely deciphered as a threat. Bellamy Blake was deadly calm at the other end of the line of tributes. Octavia didn’t wait for direction to join the tributes, she stalked calmly towards her brother, taking his hand in hers. The crowd were still muttering with confusion, and Caesar was panickedly looking off stage for help.

Clarke was too enraptured in what was happening in front of her to notice what had happened next to her. She was jolted to awareness by Lexa, a tribute from District 2, tapping her wrist. Beside her, the tributes had followed the Blake’s lead and joined hands, creating a solid wall of tributes on the stage. Clarke stared at her hand, until Lexa rolled her eyes and pulled  Clarke’s palm into her own. She turned with wide eyes to Felix next to her, whose jaw was set in a hard line.

“Felix,” she whispered hesitantly, uncertain but holding her hand out to him regardless. The conflict in his eyes was hard to hide, but after a cold moment, his hand slipped into hers, feather light as if he was scared to touch her.

That was when the lights cut out; panic ensued, with Caesar rushing off stage and the audience unnecessarily screaming in panic. But the tributes stayed put, forged in solidarity until they were forcibly removed from the stage, and the eyes of the Capitol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chap was a bit shorter!<3 kudos etc appreciated<33

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr! stacygwehn.tumblr.com


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